My daughter turns 18 in just four more years.
I hate that I’m counting the days.
Not because I want her to grow up faster—but because of the way our government is collapsing, the way threats keep building. Because at 18, I’ll no longer be so directly and legally tied. I always want to guide and protect her and her older brother, but at 18, the magnitude lessens a bit.
My words and actions won't directly affect their lives or security. I'll pretty much be free to speak as loudly as I want, without fear that my words will be used to hurt my children, who rely on me and this home I've made for them to grow.
And I will speak, no matter the consequence.
What I don’t understand is why so many people—people who don’t have children, who don’t have vulnerable lives hanging in the balance—are so quiet while democracy unravels.
This is it. These are the moments that define you. The ones that history remembers.
We look back and celebrate bold men: Teddy Roosevelt, John Lewis, Frederick Douglass. But there were always women standing just as firm—Eleanor, Rosa, Sojourner Truth—often even more persistent, though less remembered.
Lately, I find myself asking: Where are the strong, good men now?
The ones who stand up publicly to hatred and tyranny? I keep searching.
Sometimes, I get this absurd flash of a thought: Was I supposed to be one of them?
Is that why people ignore what I say—because I’m not that? Or because I was supposed to be? Or is it just because I am a woman?
Or is that the joke? That the good men in the history books were just trans women nobody knew about?
Then I laugh, cry a little, and go lie down.
Because while I don't believe in destiny, I’m pushing 40, and anxiety does wild things to the brain, no matter your beliefs.
Still, I have hope.
My son is becoming a good man—kind, capable, thoughtful.
My daughter? She's full of love, full of curiosity. But she’ll need to be sharp, strong, ready. This world? It’s shifting fast.
I have to prepare her. Teach her how to spot threats from a mile away. How to care, and how to protect herself, too.
And maybe—if I believed in a higher power—I’d think this was the reason. That this path, this life, this perspective… it was given to me for a purpose. I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe there’s a grand plan. But sometimes, it’s hard not to wonder.
Because there’s no way my daughter would be ready for the world she’s growing into if I hadn’t gone through everything I did to become her mom.
Transitioning has been both joy and burden. A need I couldn’t escape.
A door I had to walk through just to breathe.
I love being a woman—but I hate that it had to be like this.
That I had to trade parts of myself just to be seen. That I’ve known more violence in this body than ever before.
That my value is seen, not from brand new ideas, but only with the sorts of safe ideas that are capable of meeting others' expectations of me as a woman.
But I’ve also known life. Real life. Not survival, not reaction—living.
The past 5–8 years, I’ve gotten to choose more, and choose willingly and authentically. Even where the choices didn't turn out they way I wanted, it was me considering and it was me learning and it was me living. I’ve dated, loved, lost, built friendships.
I’ve been a mom, a boss, a sister, a fiancée.
Wife hasn’t happened yet, but I’m not counting it out.
And through it all, I’ve moved through the world as a woman—even in the ways I’ve been attacked.
It’s strange, isn’t it?
The bigots call us “men” with their mouths, but the way they treat us? The way they react to us, obsess over us, and try to shame us?
That’s not how men are treated, typically.
Bigoted men don’t challenge trans women the way they challenge other men. They don’t engage in debate or test strength.
They rage the way men rage at women.
They’re angry that we have a voice. That we take up space.
Sometimes they’re jealous of the attention we get. Sometimes they’re ashamed of their attraction.
But when they lash out, the insults they throw aren’t masculine ones.
They don’t say, “You’re weak” or “You’re wrong.”
They say, “You’re ugly.” “You’re disgusting.” “You’re mentally ill.”
They mock our appearance. They sexualize us. They call us unstable.
That’s not how men fight men. That’s how they try to cut down women.
Bigoted women don’t treat trans women like men either.
They treat us like bad girls.
Like outsiders who skipped the rituals, broke the codes, didn’t pay the price for entry.
They resent our confidence. Our softness. Our refusal to be quiet.
Sometimes they’re jealous of our youth, or our joy, or the love we receive.
Sometimes it’s our visibility.
But whatever the reason, they treat us with the judgment and coldness that cis women are trained to aim at other women who don’t observe the nuances and rituals of female culture. They don't tend to treat us as perverts or confused men that need redirection, despite that being the claim.
So even while those JK Rowlings of the world shout “You’re not a woman”—everything about how they respond to us proves that we actually are, but they just can't handle it.
They typically gender us correctly in action, even when they swear they don't or won’t.
So whatever happens under these crazy times, under this awful administration—whatever comes for people like me—I know one thing:
I'm still me. It won’t be the first time I’ve faced it. And I’ve survived before.
I’ve lived as myself. I’ve raised children who are becoming strong and kind.
And even if the world ends, I’ll have done that. I’ll have loved them, protected them, and showed them what it means to woman up. And when they are adults, none of that will change either. There will just be more of it.